


The God-Haunted Earth

by Lysandra



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 18:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21378343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysandra/pseuds/Lysandra
Summary: Bartimaeus is repeatedly philosophized at, and absolutely does not take any of it to heart. A look at the middle portion of Ptolemy and Bartimaeus's friendship.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Bartimaeus Fic Exchange 2019





	The God-Haunted Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tarragonthedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarragonthedragon/gifts).

When I met the boy, I didn’t trust him. Not for a long time, not fully.

Can you blame me?

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t rubbed elbows with young princes before. They were some of the favorite pawns of the powerful, young and doe-eyed and still desperately devoted to their empires. Most of them, anyway. You did get the occasional one who was clearly dead inside, who knew he was being used and had given up on caring.

Ptolemy was not like that.

He was never a stoic, single-minded as he was. The third or fourth time he summoned me, his eyes lit up like he were greeting an old friend. I was in the shape of a moldy skeleton at the time, which made this reaction especially odd.

I cocked one bony hip and tilted my head to the side. “What? You again?” I said. “Not more inane questions, I hope.”

“No,” he said, twisting his stylus between thumb and index finger, smiling a bit. “Only good ones.”

It was that dance we were learning to play. I’d swerve, and he’d follow, step for step. It’s a rare thing for humans, the ability to keep time. No offense meant by that, of course; it simply requires the ability to pay attention.

Ptolemy paid attention.

He watched as the skeleton in front of him knocked its knees together, clicked its teeth in irritation, and plopped down cross-legged in the pentacle opposite him, mirroring his position. I propped my chin up in the palm of a bony hand.

“You must know this information will get you nowhere,” I said silkily. “It’s a waste of your skill. Someone like you, why, you could be great one day. If only you’d quit squandering your time.”

“I have enough time to squander,” said Ptolemy, flipping the stylus end-over-end. I watched the little bones move in the back of his hand. He was so young. A child, nowhere close to becoming a man. Didn’t he have anything better to be doing? Stealing sweets from the kitchen? Throwing rocks at cats? “And today...I am extremely curious about the nature of your magic. Does it come from your own essence, or from a connection to the Other Place?”

I made myself comfortable.

* * *

“Are there things you like about Earth?” Ptolemy asked one day when he was barely thirteen. That was a new one. He didn’t usually fish for compliments.

I eyed him sternly. I had cat’s eyes, and the slit-pupil effect was suitably chastising. “Why would I? It is nothing but a source of pain to me.”

Ptolemy flinched. He was usually unruffled, so this caught my attention.

“What? What answer were you expecting?”

“I thought perhaps there might have been some bright spots.” He was tracing invisible whorls on the floor with one finger. “There must be things that bring you pleasure, if only briefly.”

I sighed. “You are flush with the arrogance of youth,” I said. “To presume to understand my nature offends me more than I can say.”

Ptolemy furrowed his brow. “Not just your nature,” he said. “Ours.”

That one did me in.

“What? Have you hit your head? You’re human, boy, and I am a spirit from the world beyond the world.1 There is nothing we have in common.”

“But there _is_,” he said, and I could tell he was about to say something hopeless and juvenile, but I listened. He had a way of tricking me into doing that. “I have a theory.”

“Of course you do.” I licked a paw dismissively.

He beamed. “Because I’ve been considering- well.” He adjusted his position, gathering his thoughts. He reminded me of a bird fluffing itself up. “Of all the orders of living things, only humans and spirits have language. Only humans and spirits possess wisdom. Only we have the intelligence to build things and to tell stories. Insects and fish and beasts and such have nothing to do with any of those. Of course there are differences, but I have much more in common with you than I do with a beetle.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I said.

He laughed. “It’s interesting to consider, at any rate,” he said. “Whatever it is that gives djinn their intelligence, perhaps human beings have it, too. The spark of consciousness...” He lifted a hand and made an inscrutable gesture.

“This is all getting a bit abstract,” I said. “Is it naptime, perhaps?” Ptolemy huffed at me, but despite my dismissiveness, the truth was that the idea disturbed me. He had something of a point there, which was that not all aspects of adapting to life on Earth were riddled with hardship. Some, in fact, were as easy as blinking. Music was the thing I thought of. He was correct that a lemur couldn’t appreciate a melody or compose a tune, but I could, and despite the fact that such a thing should have been unnatural to me...it never had been. The Other Place was devoid of sound, but I’d known the difference between speaking and singing the first time I heard it.

“Maybe I should rest for a while,” he said. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“The way the light turns yellow when the sun sets,” I said, decisively. “I’ll admit that it’s...beautiful.”

“Oh,” said Ptolemy. He clasped his knees. And then, as though I’d given him a gift, “Thank you.”

“Don’t get a big head about it,” I said. “This pit of yours isn’t _that _nice.”

“Not the cities, perhaps,” he said. “But I’ve heard of places that I think even you would find lovely. One day I’ll go with the traders on their ships to the east. I want to see it all so badly. The things I could learn from the scholars of the world!”

“I don’t think that experience will be as comfortable as you’re anticipating,” I warned him. “You were raised in wealth. The way that traders live is very different. The freedom you’d enjoy. The dust, less so. In a way, I envy you.”

“Why?” he asked. “I thought you hated this...pit.”

“I do, don’t get me wrong,” I said. “But there are places that even I have never seen. And to simply go where you will is a privilege I’ve never had.”

Ptolemy frowned. “I don’t stop you going anywhere,” he said. This was true. Our friendship had flourished remarkably in the past year; he had dispensed with most of the bindings by then.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “My duty is still to you. Can you honestly say that you would be content to watch me saunter out the door to go and sunbathe in the Mediterranean?”

Ptolemy looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said.

My cat’s guise twitched its tail agitatedly. “You don’t mean that,” I said.

“I do,” he said. “If you wanted to go. If you weren’t inclined to stay by my side any longer.”

“And what if I didn’t come back?”

“I wouldn’t call you again. To have you shackled to my side, that isn’t what I want.”

It isn’t easy to make a cat teary-eyed, but Ptolemy did so love to do the impossible.

* * *

The freedom that Ptolemy had gifted me was dizzying. Foolishly, I didn’t even leave the town the first day. I found myself wandering dazedly along the harbor, watching people come and go. It was different from going off on an errand, though I was alone then, too. For the first time, I had the knowledge that I would not be expected back.

I returned briefly to the palace that evening. Something compelled me to speak to Penrenutet before I left. I won’t say that he was a source of counsel, but he carried with him a sort of calm, despite being younger than myself. 

I found him in the courtyard.

“Hello, Bartimaeus,” he said. “I thought that you were dismissed for the timebeing.” I was touched - Ptolemy had thought to spare my reputation by concealing the fact that I had chosen to stay on Earth.

“Not just yet,” I said. “The master intends to send me on a far-reaching journey.”

“Delaying the inevitable as usual, I assume,” he said.

“Not so much inevitable,” I admitted. “I could have refused.”

“I see.” He examined me. “The boy trusts you very much.”

“He’s a bit of a fool, yes,” I said.

Penrenutet smiled. He wore the shape of a pretty young girl with long, straight hair. “So often you turn that sharp tongue on yourself,” he said. “I do not intend to criticize him. You have a good heart, despite everything.”

It was a bizarre compliment for a couple of reasons. The first is that we spirits tend to avoid metaphors relating to parts of the body in conversation with each other. He’d used the word _heart _deliberately, and I wasn’t certain why. The second reason is obvious: no one had accused me of being kind before, and no one has since.

“What an odd thing to say,” I said. “Are you perhaps thinking of someone else?”

“Not at all. Humans like you when you let them. It is one of your peculiar gifts.”

“That’s hardly a gift,” I said, inspecting my fingernails. “I don’t want their company. Of course I understand why they take a shine to me - who wouldn’t? But do you honestly think I want them hanging around like flies?”

“No,” Penrenutet conceded. 

“Well, then,” was my witty rejoinder.

“Bartimaeus, do you ever think about what it would be like to be a man?”

I blinked. In truth, I didn’t. “This is why I don’t come to speak with you often,” I said. “What is it with you and standing around saying disconcerting things? I know that Ancient Egypt was your father-farm,2 but good grief.”

“Is it that strange to wonder?” he said. “It seems only natural to contemplate the nature of other beings. And I have to wonder whether it would be so terrible, to be human.”

I stared at Penrenutet in stupefied horror. “You can’t be serious. Of course it would.” I shuddered in disgust. “Think of the diseases. Think of the _fluids. _And getting injured, and growing old...and to be kin with slavers, torturers, and worse!“

Penrenutet smiled wryly in that disconcerting way of his. “Certainly, certainly. I do not mean to alarm you.”

“Well, you failed!” I said.

“I only mean that, at times, when my mind has time to wander, I see myself as a man, walking barefoot along the riverbank, and bending my head to drink from it. I feel as though the coin could have landed on one side rather than the other. Do you understand?”

I looked into the dark glitter of Penrenutet’s eyes. “No,” I said.

* * *

I journeyed.

I found myself hesitant to go too far afield in case I was needed. It was a foolish anxiety, but one that I found strangely hard to shake. Perhaps I’d been trained too well. It was a sad thought.

But when the reality of my freedom had sunk into me, I rejoiced. When I think back on those times, when I would cross continents for the sheer thrill of it, there is a surreal quality to the memories. My mind settled as it never had on Earth. Unshackled, I blended into my surroundings, and there was even a time when the animals I encountered in the shape of one of their kind didn’t startle, but took me for one of their own.

At the end of one such odyssey, I stopped in a city before I returned to Alexandria. Corinth, it was. I couldn’t have told you why I chose it. I’d been enjoying my solitude, but something compelled me to mingle unseen among people for a brief time.

It wasn’t long before this proved tedious, however. Penrenutet’s strange and disturbed fantasies held no water for me, and when I encountered another djinni splitting firewood outside of town, I sat down on a nearby rock to watch him.

“Greetings,” he said mildly. “I hope you’re here to help me.” The axe he was using came to rest by his side.

“You seem to be managing alright on your own,” I said. I got a sort of twisted enjoyment from watching him work while I was free to rest, but it was a painful, ugly thing.

The djinni narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recognize you,” he said. “Are you a spy?”

“If I were a spy, I’d be doing a piss-poor job of it, wouldn’t I?” 

“Oh. Fair enough.” His guise was interesting, if a bit more delicate than my usual tastes, that of a fair-skinned man with shimmering turquoise scales over half his face. “Then you’ve escaped, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Didn’t you kill your master? Why are you still here?”

“My master set me free,” I said, to see what he would say.

“Oh,” he said. “How lucky. How wonderful.” At first I thought he was mocking me, but I realized that he believed me, and that his happiness was quite sincere.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I already know.”

That caught my attention. “What is your name?”

“Udjek,” he said. “I won’t ask yours. I understand. You want to keep your master safe.”

“What makes you think that?” I asked, casually scratching a knee.

“I had a-” he dropped off abruptly, then swallowed. “A person. Well, I have work to finish before the sun goes down.” He turned his back to me.

I snorted. “If this was important, you wouldn’t be out here yourself. They’re just keeping you busy for now.”

Udjek’s shoulders drooped. “Why did you come here to harass me? Go and enjoy your freedom. It won’t last.”

“I’m well aware,” I said. I paused. “You had a _person_, did you? Some benevolent master who loosened your leash now and again?”

“She was the daughter of my master,” he said, still not meeting my eyes. He was dragging the dull axe back and forth across the earth, making an aimless furrow in the dirt. “In those days, that was allowed. She was kind to me, even though she knew my nature. She used to sneak into the kitchens after dark to help me clean. But it’s over now. These things pass.”

I sat forward. Something ached within me. “You loved her.”

Udjek dipped his chin in silent assent. “She was different from the others. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Surely not,” I said.

“She was special. Such a thing could never happen again.”

“No doubt.”

“It was probably for the best that it didn’t last long.”

“Probably.” I studied the little white flowers growing around the base of my rock. Based on the color of the sky, it was going to rain soon. It was pleasant, in that moment, not knowing how the story ended. Doubtless in tragedy, some betrayal or other, with Udjek carrying the memory of some foolish girl around like a worn old blanket. But I let it spin out before me: perhaps the girl had loved him. Perhaps she’d pled with his master on his behalf. Perhaps they’d sat together in the study while her father had slept and she’d listened to him speak with bated breath. Perhaps she’d grown old and had many children. Perhaps Udjek had named one. Perhaps, perhaps. Did I want to hear the end of the story? I decided that I did.

“What happened to your girl?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Udjek quietly. He had half-turned to face me. “She kissed me on the mouth one day.”

I stared at him, stunned. He was smiling, much to my surprise. 

“Well,” he said. “That’s the only part that matters, anyway. That’s the part it’s good to remember. The rest can fade into dust for all I care.”

* * *

When I returned to Ptolemy, he was waiting for me.

“I thought it would be today,” he said, excited. He was sitting in the courtyard, editing his notes. “I knew it. Isn’t that remarkable?”

I clicked my tongue at him. “You’re my master,” I reminded him. “You probably sensed my aura.”

He put a hand to the side of his head and laughed. “You’re right. I lost my wits for a moment. But it is good to see you, my friend. You must tell me about your travels.”

“I will,” I said. “In time. I’ll need to rest first. I am tired, and I must recover my strength. I only meant to tell you I’ve returned.”

“I understand,” said Ptolemy. “Yes, of course. It must have been a long journey.” He coughed, and it sounded uncomfortably chesty.

“Have you been ill?” I asked. It came out sounding rather more accusatory than I’d intended.

“Yes,” Ptolemy admitted. “A bit. That’s why I’ve been exiled out here. They thought the air might help my cough.” He looked forlorn.

I tapped my foot in irritation. “That’s no good. You should be in your bed resting, not out here breathing in the dust.”

Ptolemy grinned. “Yes, _father_.”

“Oh, don’t be cheeky!” I wagged a finger at him. “Someone’s got to keep you from keeling over.”

“Well,” he said, cocking his head. “If that’s true, then I’m glad it’s you.” He coughed again, worse this time. “Yes, alright. I’m going indoors.”

I touched the back of his shoulder briefly as he stood, a simple gesture of companionship. He clasped my hand where it touched his back, and I thought of Penrenutet’s shadow man walking alone along the river. If I’d conjured up a shadow of my own, I think mine might have walked with a child in his arms.

It’s a good thing I’m not prone to flights of fancy.

1 I got a bit lofty there, admittedly.

2 Father-farm: a term used by spirits to refer to the culture by which one is first contacted, and in which one is socialized. I’m not sure where the term came from, but its use has continued even into the present day, across languages.


End file.
